


Stormy Love

by agent_starbuck



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Blow Jobs, F/M, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Oral Sex, Smut, season 7
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 08:46:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18752974
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agent_starbuck/pseuds/agent_starbuck
Summary: I couldn’t get a certain, blurry Instagram photo out of my mind, so I wrote a fic about it. Also, includes the prompt “Let’s get you out of these wet clothes” that I may or may not have just totally made up...Originally posted on Tumblr.





	Stormy Love

 

See photo here:

[https://www.instagram.com/p/BMrIkQHj9f6/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=105sgvg9vplpv](https://www.instagram.com/p/BMrIkQHj9f6/?utm_source=ig_share_sheet&igshid=105sgvg9vplpv)

Scully has always been a fan of thunderstorms. When she was ten or eleven-- all gawky limbs and stringy, red hair-- she'd sit on the porch of their home in Annapolis with Melissa, watching as the storm clouds swirled in the distance. They'd eat popsicles and talk about how dumb all the neighborhood boys were. As the winds picked up, and the roaring bang of thunder got impossibly close, she'd play a game of chicken with her sister to see who could stay outside the longest before getting too scared and running inside. Melissa always lost.

 

Looking back, remembering with fondness how carefree and happy she felt during those moments with Melissa, it's no surprise, then, that summer is her favorite time of year. On the rare occasion that she is home during an afternoon or evening summer storm, she's filled with an overwhelming sense of nostalgia. Her apartment doesn't have a porch, but she finds ways to be creative: opening up her windows and arranging her furniture so she can fit her oversized, comfy chair next to them. It's a lot of work just to enjoy a few fleeting moments of stormy weather, but she doesn't mind. She sips her tea indulgently and props her legs up on the window seal, the wind tickling her bare toes, as she watches nature's spectacular show play out before her very eyes.

 

So, it comes as a shock to her that, in this moment, soaking wet to the bone and taking shelter in an abandoned apartment complex, she absolutely despises thunderstorms.

 

The grey Merino wool suit she'd purchased at the Chanel outlet last Saturday was probably ruined. Her hair was a frizzy, wet, tangled mess. The pantyhose she debated on even wearing today was clinging awkwardly to the damp skin on her legs.

 

“Okay, so maybe we, uh, should have waited for a better time to apprehend our suspect,” Mulder admits, peeling his jacket off and struggling to loosen the knot on his tie. Droplets of water shake free from his sopping clothes and stain the dusty wood floor below. The air around the living room in which they were now standing was humid-- stifling.

 

She doesn't respond. Merely glares at him in a “Gee, you think?” manner, before sauntering off to crack open a window. She needs fresh air.

 

They were twelve, gruelling hours into the surveillance detail of a suspect who claimed to have coordinates to the location of a top-secret government warehouse that supposedly contained some kind of alien biological material. The informant was a shady character-- had connections with everyone from local computer hackers to the mob-- and Scully had doubts that anything would even come of it. There were several warrants out for his arrest. He was undoubtedly looking to make some kind of deal, plain and simple, and Mulder was just gullible enough to fit into his agenda.

 

They chose the abandoned apartment building as their stakeout location and, after Mulder had finally spotted the suspect, he decided to try and make contact. The man knew what Mulder looked like, but he wasn't expecting him to bring a partner along, and as soon as the man saw Scully, he panicked and bolted down the street. They pursued him for a few blocks, but lost him. Then, as if Mother Nature were cruelly laughing at the misfortune of their events, it started pouring the rain.

 

“As soon as it lets up, we'll get outta here. I wanna get back to the office so I can go over some notes, and make a few calls.”

 

Fox Mulder was nothing if not dedicated. All _she_ wanted was Mozart, a cold shower, and her softest pajama shorts.

 

She acknowledges him with a brief nod, her gaze fixed upon the torrential downpour outside the window. A deep rumble of thunder echoes off the walls around them, rattling the thin panes of glass. She feels the vibrations in her gut.

 

She'd give anything to have Melissa here with her so she could eat a popsicle and complain about boys. Or at least one boy in particular.

 

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

 

“You, um, okay over there, Scully? You seem… distant.” She hears him walking towards her, but holds her ground. Doesn't flinch. Mesmerized, instead, by the rhythmic harmony of raindrops in the distance.

 

“I'm fine,” she replies automatically.

 

“You’re angry,” he says, like it's a sudden epiphany, the lightbulb finally going off in his mind.

 

“Mulder--,” she sighs exasperatedly. “What I _am_ is tired, hungry, hot, and wet. My neck is sore from sitting in this god-awful apartment for twelve hours. We've made absolutely no progress on this case-- lost our only solid lead which, frankly, wasn't that solid to begin with-- and now we're stuck here until this storm passes.”

 

“It could always be worse.”

 

She finally turns around to give him her best, skeptical look, the words 'How could it be worse?’ dying on her lips as soon she notices he's taken off his dress shirt. His white undershirt, still damp from the rain, contours around every delicious muscle, leaving little to the imagination. His hair is delightfully rumpled, and she fights the irrational urge to run her fingers through it.

 

 _'Indeed, it could be worse,’_ she thinks.

 

He must've noticed her ogling him because he smiles at her suggestively, taking another step in her direction.

 

“You know, you can take off your shirt, Scully. I'm not gonna bite. You've gotta be uncomfortable in that wet, heavy, suit.”

 

“Unlike you, I'm not wearing an undershirt.” She eyes him suspiciously, brow arched in defense.

 

“I won't complain.”

 

“Mulder…” she admonishes.

 

“Then, I'll take off my shirt, too. It's only fair,” he offers teasingly.

 

_‘Was he honestly daring her to strip off her clothes in front of him?’_

 

“That's not the same, and you know it,” she retorts, trying to retain a modicum of professionalism between them.

 

On the outside, she manages an extraordinary level of calm. On the inside, her heart is a wild thing, fluttering desperately against her ribs like a hummingbird trapped in an iron cage.

 

 _‘Damn him,’_ she curses under her breath. How can he have this effect on her? His words are nothing but empty threats, flirting with the edge of that platonic line, but never crossing it. After seven years, she should be used to it. She's playing an entirely different game of chicken, now, and she wonders who will be the first to break.

 

“I’m only thinking of your comfort, Scully. Besides I've seen you in your underwear. You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

 

She can feel the blood surge into her cheeks at his candid statement, spreading over her neck and chest, the heat suddenly too oppressive. She clears her throat, and shrugs out of her blazer, unbuttoning the top two buttons of her blouse-- just enough to expose her collarbones-- taunting him in retaliation.

 

Mulder's eyes dart to her chest, lingering just a little too long while his tongue runs along his bottom lip, before meeting her gaze.

 

“Keep going FBI woman.”

 

“After you, G-man,” she quips, lightning fast.

 

God, what was she _doing_? Where did that even come from? Why does her voice sound so honey thick in her throat?

 

She expects him, then, to retreat-- white flag billowing in surrender. Expects him to smirk and laugh it off as a little harmless banter between coworkers.

 

What she _doesn't_ expect him to do is reach back to grab a fistful of his t-shirt and pull it over his head in one swift move.

 

_Oh, shit._

 

There's no way she can pretend that what they're doing now is in any way innocent teasing. Her breath catches in her throat, eyes roaming over his solid chest and abs. She curses him for looking so good.

 

She tries to look away, she really does. But he's got her under his spell-- transfixed as though his exposed skin is the key to unlocking the secrets of the universe. She fixates on the delicate curve of his Adonis Belt and wonders how sensitive his skin is there. Would he shudder at the feel of her tongue tracing the outline of it?

 

Suddenly, her nipples strain against the fabric of her bra. She's thankful, at least, that she decided to wear a matching set. Just in case…

 

_‘Just in case? God, Dana.’_

 

“See anything you like?” he asks hesitantly, eyes a little too dark. Dangerous.

 

Unable to hold his gaze, she shakes her head no. Not because she doesn't like what she sees. _God, she does._ But because she's trying to convince herself otherwise.

 

He lets out a raspy chuckle in response. “No?” She feels him take another step towards her. She takes a step back.

 

“Mulder…” She intended to warn him, but his name escapes her lips like a moan instead. Her eyes finally find his-- searching, pleading. It terrifies her how badly she wants him.

 

“I'm tired, Scully. I'm so tired of pretending not to want this. To want you.” He sounds so tormented, so lost, that it takes an insurmountable measure of self-control not to gather him up in her arms and crush him tight against her.

 

She knows that ache all too well. It's become her constant companion all these years. She's so bound to it, in fact, that the thought of actually breaking free from it fills her with paralyzing doubt and fear.

 

“Say something,” he pleads, noticing her inner conflict. “Talk to me.”

 

“I’m scared,” she finally whispers.

 

“Me too,” he admits, stepping forward.

 

“Mulder, there are a million reasons why this is a bad idea.”

 

Another step. “I don't care.”

 

“What if,” she starts, persistent tears suddenly stinging her eyes. “What if we're bad at this?”

 

He brushes a strand of unruly hair from her cheek, leaning closer. She can feel the heat radiating off his body, now. Her self-control is melting away with each passing moment.

 

“Impossible,” he breathes. “We're too good together to be bad at anything.”

 

Bending his head, his face seeks hers and, for a moment, she thinks he's going to kiss her, lips throbbing with need.

 

But he doesn't.

 

Instead, he rests his forehead against hers in an intimate gesture that's become all too familiar between them. She closes her eyes and breathes.

 

In. Out.

 

Mulder's soft, earthy musk fills her nostrils, provoking a flood of hormones to invade every inch of her body. Her trembling hand has a mind of its own-- reaching, searching, until it makes contact with the nape of his neck, tangling in the fine, damp hairs it finds there.

 

Outside, the rain hums its approval.

 

She feels his deft, long fingers play with the buttons of her shirt. “Let's get you out of these wet clothes,” he growls in a voice so low, so gravelly, her knees nearly buckle in response.

 

He slowly, torturously works his way down the front of her shirt until it falls open, sliding over her shoulders and catching on the bend of her elbows. His eyes steal a glance, and she lets him take it willingly. She wants him to see. She wants him to do _more_ than see.

 

Her chest rises and falls frantically as she struggles to take in adequate oxygen, overwrought with such love and emotion for this man. His tender gaze makes her feel things she didn't dare dream were possible. She should've expected as much-- Mulder has been showing her the impossible since the moment their fates intertwined.

 

As soon as his lips find her neck and latch on, she swears it's like coming home. Gasps and heavy breaths fill the air around them, drowning out the sounds of rain. Any resolve she has left shatters with each crack of thunder, each pass of his lips against her skin. A rush of warmth settles low in her belly. He drags his wet, swollen mouth from her neck, across her jaw, until finally, _finally_ , it reaches her lips.

 

 _This_ is what she had been missing all these years-- this desperate tug and pull of his mouth against hers. She wants to cry from the rightness of it. The crackling energy of his kiss makes her head spin, drunk with reckless desperation. She’s aware how dedicated, how passionate, Mulder can be, but she's never been the sole focus of that passion before now. It's intense and overwhelming. Blinding.

 

The ghost of his touch on her stomach makes her tingle in anticipation. Gentle, yet sure. He trails his knuckles up, up-- lingering on the bump of each rib-- until, finally, he finds her breast and squeezes. A needy gasp escapes her lips. He swallows it greedily.

 

She clings to him as he worships her. Never has being touched felt this good, felt so _right_ . His lips cover her other breast, mouth full of lace and silk and _her_ , as he licks and sucks. Her nails scrape across the back of his scalp and he shivers in response.

 

“Scully… Christ. I've needed you for so long,” he hums against her breast

 

“You have me, Mulder,” she says because it's true. There's never been anyone else. How could there ever be?

 

Kissing his way back up, he pulls her to him in a crushing embrace. The feel of so much exposed skin sliding against hers make her legs tremble-- his strong arms the only thing preventing her from collapsing to the ground. She can appreciate so many things in this position, it's like sensory overload. The strong, wild thump of his heart against her breast, his quick, shallow breaths that tickle her hair, his swollen erection nudging impatiently against her thigh.

 

God, that's Mulder' cock, hard and ready, pressing into her. She did that-- made him _that_ aroused from just a few kisses-- and the thought drives her absolutely mad.

 

She reaches between them, then, to squeeze him gently through his slacks, and he hisses her name through a sharp exhale. Even still, she can feel him growing in her tiny hand.

 

“You know, Mulder,” she purrs into his ear as she strokes him slowly. “I think you'd be much more comfortable if you took these off.”

 

Without preamble, she sinks to her knees in front of him, her delicate fingers working at his belt, and it's so unlike her to be so forward the first time, but the way he stares at her-- a mixture of awe and reverence and lust-- encourages her to keep going. She watches his zipper slide down, everything going so fast, yet too slow, and her mind races at the realization that she's about to discover what he's been hiding behind those baggy slacks. As they finally slide down his long legs, the belt buckle landing on the floor with a _clink_ , she's met with the beautiful sight of a fully erect Fox Mulder straining against his grey, cotton briefs. He twitches under her gaze, a small wet spot staining the fabric, and she feels the sticky heat of her own arousal between her thighs in response.

 

Leaning in, she presses her lips to the skin above his underwear, then trails her tongue along the tantalizing curve of his hip bone. He moans his approval, hands sliding up her toned arms to rest on her shoulders. She nips at the edge of his waistband, pulling it taught with her teeth, before releasing it with a satisfying snap.

 

“Fuck,” he groans as she offers penance with her tongue, soothing away the mark left on his perfect skin.

 

She could spend eternity teasing him, but the overwhelming need to have him in her mouth-- to taste the velvety sweetness of him-- drives her to finally pull his underwear down his legs.

 

He's absolutely perfect-- thick and well-defined. A flush burns through her skin at the delicious sight. She presses a barely-there kiss to the tip, and his hips buck against her mouth.

 

“Scully, Jesus!” he chokes out. “You, uh… maybe you shouldn't do that now… if you wan-want this to go anywhere.”

 

“Please,” she begs softly. “I want to.” It's embarrassing, really, the amount of times she's fantasized about this.

 

She knows that it's impossible for him to deny her this, now, especially with her lips so close to the throbbing heat of him and, as she feels the pressure of his fingers against her scalp kneading in encouragement, she tentatively licks him slowly from base to tip.

 

A string of expletives leave his mouth in a rush as she holds him in place, sinking her perfect lips down his shaft until she feels him bump against the back of her throat. She pauses to give him time to adjust, before setting a slow, maddening rhythm. It's her new favorite thing, finding out which spots make him moan, which spots make his hands grip her hair tighter, which spots make him thrust against her silky-smooth tongue.

 

She's sucking and licking and kissing, alternating pressure with feather-light touches, his groans and breathless words urging her to continue. The essence of his desire, mixed with her own saliva, drips off her chin, and the wet sounds echoing off the walls blend with the sounds of rain, the ambiance creating a sensual backdrop as she continues her ministrations.

 

“I'm gonna-- God-- I'm gonna come, Scully,” he grunts. She feels him start to pull away, but presses her palms into the flesh of his ass, anchoring him to her mouth while he twitches and jerks, the hot, tanginess of him sliding down the back of her throat.

 

“I'm, I'm sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly. She presses lazy kisses to his stomach, then above his heart, then the corner of his mouth.

 

“That was so, incredibly hot Mulder. Don't you dare apologize for that,” she grins across his lips, then sucks on the dip of his chin.

 

“Oh, yeah?” He wraps an arm around her waist and tugs her to him. “You're a little tease, you know that?”

 

“Hey, I'm not the one who suggested we get rid of the wet clothes.”

 

“True. But if my calculations are correct, and they usually are,” he taunts, and she rolls her eyes. “There's still a couple articles of wet clothing that remain, and I'd very much like to take care of them.” His fingers caress the skin above her dress pants and she shivers.

 

“Well, then,” she pants. “I guess you better get to work.”

  
  
  
  
  



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